The Spectre of Monkey Island
by Ryback
Summary: It's a rollicking inter-island saga as Guybrush once again has to defeat his arch nemesis LeChuck! Novelised from a fangame script.


Note: the following novel was adapted from a fan game script I   
wrote twelve months ago. The fan game never got produced, but at   
least the script got finished. You can read it at   
http://lucasfic.org/open.txt   
The Spectre of Monkey Island has nothing to do with LucasArts   
and was written strictly for entertainment. Do NOT contact   
LucasArts about it. You'll only get us both in trouble.   
  
===  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
===  
  
"Om mani padre hum," chanted the monk.  
  
He sat alone, crosslegged, on the wooden floor of one of the  
many rooms in the Monastery of Small Footsteps. Morning sunlight  
came in from windows set high up on the walls. Apart from the  
monk, there was not a single thing in the room.  
  
"Om mani padre hum," continued the chant.  
  
It was the only sound in the Monastery. Everyone else, as far as  
the Monk knew, was off on a morning hike to one of the holier  
areas of Cutlass Island. This was well, because what the Monk  
was doing required immense reserves of concentration.  
  
He was having an out-of-body experience.  
  
It was one of a number of things devotees of the Way of Small  
Footsteps were able to do, after many years of training. The  
Monk was very good at it.  
  
The years of training were necessary because there was always a  
slight risk associated with out-of-body experiences. At the one  
moment, you were in two places at once - sitting down somewhere  
in an empty room, and also flying around outside, a free spirit.  
If something might upset your concentration at a time like this,  
you could end up schizophrenic.   
  
But the Monk was a master. Right now, while he was sitting on  
the bare wooden floor, he was also a zephyr of spirit energy,  
wafting across the sea on gentle, warm breezes. He looked down  
at the sea. There didn't seem to be anything down there, but the  
Monk remained confident. Sooner or later he would come across an  
animal, and then he could go a step further - he could do a  
mind-share.  
  
A mind-share was, simply, occupying the mind of another animal.  
For as long as you wished, you could be a gazelle, a parrot,  
even a worm. Mind-shares were ostensibly illegal at the  
Monastery of Small Footsteps. In practice everybody did it  
sooner or later, usually somewhere private for politeness' sake.  
And if out-of-body experiences required super concentration,  
mind-shares required *ultra* concentration. Many a brother had  
died insane, thinking they were goats or crows.  
  
As focused as he was, the Monk couldn't help but hear some  
noises nearby. Someone else was in the Monastery. Someone who,  
whenever they moved, couldn't help but make as much noise as  
possible.  
  
The door opened, and in walked the acolyte.   
  
There's one like him in every group. An eager, not so bright  
student who always has about a hundred ideas, each of which is  
guaranteed to fail. No doubt he'd been assigned some sort of  
punishment, but had gotten bored and was wandering about looking  
for company. Now he could see the Monk, and he *beamed*.  
  
"Mr Monk!" he said happily. "I've been looking for you!"  
  
The Monk didn't look around. He continued chanting.  
  
"Oh... you're channelling again, are you?" said the acolyte,  
after a while. "Gee, it's a good thing everybody's away today.  
Channelling's really hard when you get distracted, isn't it?  
What with people TALKING over the CHANTING, making you LOSE YOUR  
PLACE... yeah, DISTRACTING."  
  
This did not seem to be having any effect on the Monk. The  
acolyte waited for a response, then walked out into the hallway.  
The Monk, despite his best efforts at concentration, heard the  
distant echo of doors slamming open, cupboards being examined,  
and equipment dumped on the floor.  
  
The Monk risked a quick swivel of one eyeball. He saw the open  
hallway, and a huge mass of *stuff* was walking toward him.  
  
The acolyte re-entered the room. Anywhere there was room on his  
body, he was carrying an instrument. Steel drums and tambourines  
and broken guitars and metal things that went 'bing' when you  
hit them.  
  
He started playing energetically. And while the acolyte didn't  
have the slightest idea of melody or rhythm, he could still  
raise enough noise to puncture eardrums at twenty paces. If  
there were any birds on the roof, they would have flown away at  
the first note.   
  
The Monk didn't even blink.  
  
The acolyte stopped playing. "Hello?" he said. "Mr. Monk?  
HELLLOOOO??"  
  
He tried a few more seconds of noise. In an amazing display of  
self-control, not a muscle moved on the Monk's face.   
  
The acolyte stopped. "You're no fun," he said sourly, and left  
in a huff.  
  
The Monk silently exhaled, in a thousandth-sigh. He'd nearly  
lost himself out there over the sea, but now the acolyte was  
gone he was back in control.  
  
And there was something down there, bobbing up and down on the  
water. The Monk zoomed in closer. It looked like a block of ice,  
and what was a block of ice doing in the Caribbean?  
  
As he came close, the Monk saw that it wasn't *just* a block of  
ice. There was a body in there.  
  
The Monk pulled up, his spirit less than twenty feet from the  
iceberg. He edged forward, slowly. What an ugly thing! It looked  
like the body of an old, fat pirate. Judging by the eternal  
sneer on its frozen face, he must have died swearing revenge.   
  
The Monk came closer. Mind-shares with corpses were seldom  
interesting, but maybe he could find out how this pirate had  
died...  
  
Ten feet out, he sensed something. The corpse remained still,  
but something inside had woken up. Something driven and  
malevolent. Intelligent.  
  
The Monk tried to back away, but suddenly he was seized and  
pulled forward by a mighty, grasping force. He couldn't pull  
out. Somewhere, far way, his body was sitting crosslegged on a  
wooden floor, but he couldn't even open his eyes. The corpse was  
growing larger, and the Monk was dragged through the ice, passed  
through the skin, and into the rotting brain of the pirate.  
  
Here was the presence, the malevolent intelligence. It turned on  
him, and in a horrible, indescribable way, began to feed.  
  
Ravenous as it was, it took less than a second to consume the  
Monk's spirit. The meal finished, it rose into the air. The path  
the Monk's spirit had taken was still there in front of him,  
thin but visible.   
  
He returned...  
  
Inside the Monastery, the Monk's eyes burst open, revealing  
green discoloured irises. A huge, dirty black beard sprouted on  
his clean-shaven face. His skin went the mottled grey of the  
living undead. His mouth opened.  
  
"Arrrr!" roared LeChuck.  
  
===  
  
THE SPECTRE OF MONKEY ISLAND  
  
===  
  
Several days later...  
  
It was another lazy summer day on Booty Island. Outside the  
Governor's Mansion, Guybrush and Elaine were lying down on  
deckchairs, in the early afternoon sunshine. Elaine was reading  
a novel.  
  
Guybrush opened the root beer in his hand and took a swig.  
"Aaah," he said contentedly, as the blessed fluid swam down his  
throat. "That really hit the spot." He turned to Elaine. "Do you  
want some?"  
  
"No," said Elaine, not looking up from her novel.   
  
"You sure? This is great stuff."  
  
Elaine didn't say anything. Guybrush could just make out the  
cover of the book from this distance. Some huge muscular pirate  
whose shirt buttons weren't working held close a simpering,  
well-endowed woman with doting eyes. They were standing on the  
deck of a pirate ship, and the wind seemed to be doing stuff to  
their hair.  
  
"Suit yourself," said Guybrush. He had another swill, and looked  
around. In the distance they could hear Filbert toiling away,  
working the back forty. Birds twittered in the jungle foliage.   
  
Several seconds passed.  
  
Elaine sighed, and shut the novel. "Guybrush..." she began.  
  
Guybrush turned to her. "What?"  
  
Elaine stared right at him. "When are you going to get off your  
backside and do some work?"  
  
The sudden attack startled Guybrush. "What?" he blurted. "What  
are you talking about?"  
  
"It's been months of laziness," continued Elaine, in a  
you're-not-really-worth-getting-angry-over voice. "You're  
slumming off my riches. I'm starting to wonder, Guybrush, if  
you're really a pirate."  
  
"I am!" protested Guybrush.  
  
"In fact," continued Elaine relentlessly, "I don't think you  
ever were a pirate."  
  
"I was so! You just-"  
  
Guybrush broke off, because Elaine wasn't looking at him  
anymore. She was looking up into the sky. Guybrush followed her  
gaze.  
  
Pieces of paper were falling from the sky. Tiny scraps, the size  
of a child's palm, fluttered onto the ground around them.   
  
Guybrush stood up and picked up one of the pieces of paper.  
There was writing on it. Guybrush read it.  
  
He breathed in sharply. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "It says LeChuck  
has become Governor of Cutlass Island! I've got to go and stop  
him!"  
  
"Good luck," said Elaine sceptically.  
  
Guybrush looked at her. "You don't think I can do it?" he asked.  
  
"Guybrush, you have trouble killing spiders. A pirate who tucks  
his shirt into his underpants is not the kind of pirate I'd  
trust with a task like this."  
  
"That's not true!"  
  
"Face it. You'll be crawling back here in twenty four hours  
begging for help and a wad of cash."  
  
Guybrush drew himself together. With injured dignity, he said,  
"I don't think so. In fact, I think I'll just get rid of LeChuck  
once and for all. And then I want an apology."  
  
Without another word he stalked off, root beer in hand.  
  
Elaine picked up the novel. "Touchy."  
  
===  
  
PART 1  
  
===  
  
Guybrush was fuming as he crossed the spit connecting the  
Mansion to the mainland. He was steaming as he walked the jungle  
paths to Ville de la Booty, and by the time he got to the  
township he was merely simmering. And even that evaporated when  
he realised he'd forgotten his wallet.  
  
Guybrush ground his teeth. Of all the stupid damn things he  
could have gone and done, forgetting his wallet was up near the  
top of the list. With no money he couldn't charter a ship, and  
without a ship he couldn't get to Cutlass Island. Guybrush  
kicked a stone on the ground, annoyed.  
  
Well, that settled that. He'd just have to turn back and-  
  
Guybrush stopped in mid-turn. He couldn't go back now - it would  
be an admission of defeat. Crawling back within twenty-four  
hours, begging for help and a wad of cash.  
  
Elaine's words still rankled with him. Guybrush's resolve  
hardened. He wasn't going back until LeChuck was six feet under.  
That'd show her, all right!  
  
Satisfied now he'd made up his mind, Guybrush looked around.  
  
Ville de la Booty was having that rarest of events - a quiet  
day. All the shops were shut, except for the antique place.  
There was just the one ship docked at the pier. And nobody in  
sight, except for a small kid sitting on the ground near the  
antique shop, listlessly playing with some fireworks.  
  
Guybrush set out for the ship. Maybe the captain might be an  
understanding, credit-giving kind of guy.  
  
===  
  
It was a nice ship, thought Guybrush as he boarded the deck.  
Smallish, but clean, and sturdy-looking.   
  
The ship captain stood on the deck, looking at him. Unlike most  
pirates, there wasn't a cloud of tiny insects and revolting  
smells revolving around him. He had a beard, but it was neatly  
kept and presentable in polite company. The clothes were all  
pressed and no stains were visible. In short, not your average  
pirate captain.  
  
"Ahoy there, young man," said the captain as Guybrush  
approached. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"I need someone to take me to Cutlass Island," said Guybrush.  
  
"Cutlass Island, eh?" mused the ship captain. "Hmmm... that's a  
long way away." He looked at Guybrush. "Cutlass is a pretty  
dangerous island, lad. Are you sure you're up to it?"  
  
Normally this sort of comment wouldn't have worried Guybrush,  
but the argument with Elaine had put him on edge somewhat. "Yes,  
I'm sure!" he said hotly.  
  
"Okay..." said the ship captain, slowly. "Well, it's going to  
cost you."  
  
This was what Guybrush had been dreading. For the benefit of the  
ship captain, he reached into his pocket, saying, "That's all  
right. I've got money." The hand searching the pocket stopped,  
and Guybrush looked stricken. "Oh, no! I've forgotten my wallet!"  
  
"You better go get it then, hadn't you?" advised the ship  
captain.  
  
Guybrush looked twice as stricken. "I... can't. Not yet."  
  
"Well then, you ain't got a ship," said the ship captain firmly.  
"A thousand pieces of eight, or no journey."  
  
"Don't you offer credit?" said Guybrush despairingly.  
  
The ship captain shook his head. "A few years ago I used to.  
Then I heard about a shopkeeper on Melee Island. Seems he gave  
away five thousand gold pieces in credit and didn't see a cent  
back. Some annoying wannabe pirate with a ponytail tricked him  
out of the money. Nearly bankrupted the guy. I guess you could  
say it sort of scared me off."  
  
It was time to leave. "Well, thanks anyway," said Guybrush,  
wasting no time in heading down the ramp to the pier.  
  
===  
  
On the ground, he thought about his options. Returning to the  
Mansion was impossible. He needed money to get off Booty Island,  
and the only place nearby that might be able to help was the  
Antique store.  
  
Guybrush wandered over and opened the door. As always, the  
interior of Booty Island's Antique store was dim, smoky and  
packed full of merchandise. Even before Guybrush had taken a  
step inside he could see the pirate tools hanging from the  
walls, the rare and probably useless merchandise perched on thin  
shelves.   
  
The antique guy was behind the counter, in perhaps the only  
brightly lit spot in the whole store. He looked inscrutably at  
Guybrush. "Hello there," he said. "How can I help you?"  
  
Hesitantly, Guybrush said, "Er... I need some money."  
  
"What do I look like, a bank?"  
  
"Don't you buy old antiques?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"Yeah, I do," said the antique guy. "What have you got?"  
  
Even before he began rummaging through his pockets, Guybrush  
knew the search was fruitless. He only had one thing - a  
half-empty bottle of root beer. Still, this guy had been stupid  
enough to buy a Spitmaster plaque from him last time. Maybe he  
could pull a fast one again.  
  
Guybrush pulled the bottle out of his pants, as if handling a  
very cultured and fragile wine. "Would you be interested in this  
rare root beer?" he said.  
  
"No," said the antique guy. Seeing Guybrush's crestfallen face,  
he added, "Actually there is something I might give you some  
money for. There's an old treasure up in the northern corner of  
the island that nobody has managed to dig up. It'd probably be  
worth a lot these days."  
  
"All right!" said Guybrush. A lost treasure - this was right up  
his street. "Where is this treasure?"  
  
"The treasure of Bony Legs Pedro," said the antique guy. "I  
don't know exactly, but I have managed to make a rough map.  
Here." He gave Guybrush a small scrap of paper.  
  
Guybrush scanned the walls. Hanging there on his right was  
something that looked just perfect for a treasure hunt. He  
pointed at a shovel. "I'd like to buy that shovel," said  
Guybrush.  
  
"That'll be thirty pieces of eight," said the antique guy.  
  
Guybrush suddenly remembered his predicament. "Ummm... the thing  
is..." he stalled.  
  
"You don't have any money," finished the antique guy.  
  
"Well... yes."  
  
"Then you can't have the shovel," said the antique guy, calmly  
but implacably.  
  
===  
  
Guybrush wandered outside, frustrated but thinking hard.  
  
No, he didn't have any money. But it felt like there was a  
solution to his problem, and the pieces were all around him. He  
only had to arrange them properly.  
  
Guybrush looked down, and saw the kid playing with the  
fireworks. This was an oddly shaped piece, all right. Guybrush  
had no idea how it might fit into the puzzle, but he might as  
well talk to the kid anyway.  
  
For a kid with fireworks, he was having a remarkable lack of  
fun. "What's happening?" said Guybrush.  
  
The kid looked up at him, disgusted. "Nothing. Can you believe  
it? I've got this great pile of fireworks here and no matches!"  
  
"Why don't you just buy some matches?" said Guybrush.  
  
"Because the guy in the antique store is a ripoff merchant,  
that's why," said the kid evenly.  
  
There was a pause. The kid shrugged his shoulders in an  
admission of defeat. "Oh, this is useless," he said. "I'm going  
home." He stood up and looked at Guybrush. "You can take the  
fireworks, if you want." Then he left.  
  
Guybrush looked down again. A large pile of fireworks was there  
in front of him. Think, Guybrush, think...  
  
He had it. This was going to be good...  
  
===  
  
The antique guy's eagle eyes saw some rather strange behaviour  
in the next few minutes.  
  
Standing behind the counter, watching the door, he saw it open  
and a short silhouette was outlined in the doorway. It was that  
Guybrush person. The antique guy watched as Guybrush  
nonchalantly wandered into the store. This was the word that  
immediately occurred to the antique guy - there was an air of  
very consciously studied nonchalance about Guybrush's walk.  
  
This nonchalant, meandering walk brought Guybrush, as if quite  
by accident, to the counter. He brought his hands up to the  
bench and said, looking at the antique guy, "Don't you take  
credit?"  
  
"Oh, no," said the antique guy immediately. "Well, I used to  
about three years ago, but then I heard about another antique  
dealer on Melee Island. Seems he gave some young pirate five  
thousand gold pieces of credit, and the guy went and defaulted  
on him. The antique dealer just about went broke. Had to pay it  
to Stan, poor guy, which just about killed him. So no, sorry, no  
credit."  
  
He'd been looking at Guybrush the whole time, and he was  
satisfied nothing untoward had happened. But he was wrong. There  
was a large display case on the bench, and in front of it a  
small box full of matches. The display case blocked the antique  
guy's view, and so Guybrush had helped himself to a handful.   
  
Nonchalantly, he walked away. The antique guy saw him wander  
into the darkest area of the store, and stop, as if entranced by  
some item.  
  
Nothing much happened in the next five seconds. Then there was a  
rustle and some motion. Then Guybrush bent down and coughed  
noisily. Underneath the coughing, the antique guy heard  
something else.  
  
Guybrush stood up, and in that same nonchalant style, walked  
away, his interest suddenly taken by a rack of pirate tools on  
one wall.  
  
The antique guy was following his progress when there was a  
sudden loud 'bang!' on his right. Involuntarily his head whipped  
around. "What the..." The formerly dark corner of his store was  
filled with light, as a collection of streamers and roman  
candles burst merrily on the ground. The noise, and light, in  
this confined space was deafening. The antique guy ducked.  
  
The last firework went off. As the dust settled, the antique guy  
rose and looked suspiciously at Guybrush. He was standing by the  
pirate tool rack, both hands behind his back, and smiling  
inanely.  
  
The antique guy's eyebrows narrowed.  
  
Guybrush started to back away, still smiling furiously.   
  
The antique guy stared straight at him.   
  
It was like a Mexican standoff.  
  
With a jolt, Guybrush backed into the door, and found he had a  
problem. How could you open a door with your hands full and  
while you were facing the other way? The antique guy was staring  
at him harder than ever and Guybrush knew he was waiting for a  
slipup.  
  
Guybrush kept smiling, backed up against the door, and tried to  
manoeuvre some spare fingers around the doorknob. A very tense  
five seconds passed, in which the only sound was the faint  
scratching sound of Guybrush failing to open the door, and the  
antique guy's low breathing.  
  
Finally he found a grip. The door opened behind him. Guybrush  
gratefully backed into the space, smiling one final time at the  
antique guy. "Be seeing you," he said, then he was gone.  
  
===  
  
Outside, Guybrush ran until he was a safe distance away. Then he  
dropped the axe and shovel on the ground and took some very deep  
breaths.   
  
Finally his heart dropped back into its normal rhythm. Out of  
sight of peering locals, he spread the map on the ground and  
studied it.  
  
The north of Booty Island was mostly untamed jungle and  
swampland. There was only one main feature, a huge tree upon  
which was built a multi-room house, formerly the home of the  
island cartographer. It afforded magnificent views of the whole  
island. However, the X on this map was a point somewhat west of  
the tree. Still, it would be a useful starting point to his  
quest.  
  
Lugging the tools, Guybrush started north. That sun was right  
above, and it was the hottest part of the day. The clouds of  
flies and gnats grew around his head, as he passed swampland and  
marshland and stinking green bogs.  
  
He was following a thin path, the only way in and out of Booty  
Island's most desolate corner. And soon, straight above like a  
beacon for weary travellers, he saw the thick, gnarled branches  
of the Big Tree.  
  
Guybrush stopped at the base of the Tree, beside a trunk nearly  
thirty feet in diameter. High above, he saw the grey planks  
bolted together, the floor of the cartographer's hut. At one  
stage a staircase had led up around the trunk of the Tree to the  
hut, but now most of the logs were gone. There was just a  
series of holes drilled into the trunk, and two small planks in  
the bottom two holes.  
  
Guybrush wasn't worried - he'd done this before. Coming forward,  
he stood on the second plank. Kneeling down, he pulled the first  
plank out of the trunk, and slotted it into the next hole. Then  
he stood on this plank, knelt down and pulled out the second  
plank. And so on. Proceeding laboriously one step at a time,  
Guybrush finally reached the main hut.  
  
It was built right on the trunk, at a point where it split into  
several thick, almost horizontal branches. Steps were cut into  
one gradually sloping branch, leading to a smaller, higher hut.  
A thin ladder led up to a tiny observation hut, built right at  
the top of the tree.  
  
It was the observation hut Guybrush wanted. He climbed  
carefully, coming through the gently swaying leaves of the tree,  
and emerged out the top, standing on a circular floor barely  
three feet wide.   
  
The view was incredible. Rolling forests and croaking wetlands  
surrounded him, and beyond them was the sea, tiny thin noiseless  
white waves crashing into the yellow sand.  
  
Guybrush got out the map, and found Ville de la Booty. He turned  
until he was looking at Booty Island's principal township. Let's  
see... this X was on his right, at about one hundred and thirty  
degrees. Not too far distant, either.  
  
He turned, and looked down. The map seemed to be indicating a  
tiny clearing in the jungle, a clearing that looked a bit to  
Guybrush like muddy swampland. Guybrush could see nothing that  
might indicate the presence of treasure.  
  
It was time to come down. Guybrush did so, and ten minutes later  
was back at the foot of the Tree. Picking up the axe and shovel,  
he set out for his quarry.  
  
It was cooler in the shade of the forest. Here there were no  
paths to follow, but Guybrush remembered his direction - almost  
directly toward the sun - and followed it slavishly, pushing  
aside ferns, low-lying vines and other native fauna.   
  
Soon the trees pulled aside, and he was in a circular clearing.  
  
The circular clearing, brilliantly lit from above, was nothing  
more than a deep, muddy bog. Guybrush knew, looking at that wet,  
bubbling surface, that to take one step into the bog was to  
forever vanish from the face of the earth. Frogs croaked and  
crickets whistled.  
  
It wasn't *all* bog, however. Right in the centre of the bog was  
an upraised mound of what looked like normal soil. It had to be,  
because it supported a wooden sign. Guybrush strained his eyes  
to read the writing.  
  
"'Congratulations!'" he read. "'You've found the long lost  
treasure of Booty Island. What do you want, a medal? Start  
digging.'"  
  
So he'd found it after all. Now he just had to get it.  
  
Guybrush looked around, momentarily indecisive, then picked up  
the axe. He chose a slender, weak-looking tree at the edge of  
the bog and began pounding at the trunk.  
  
The first blow shook every leaf in the tree, causing a massive  
exodus of birds. Guybrush kept pounding. From the way the whole  
tree shook at his blows, it wasn't very strong.  
  
The seventh stroke caused the trunk to crack. The tree began to  
keel over. With a gradual tearing sound, the crack deepened. The  
keel became more pronounced. Finally, like an old man giving up  
the ghost, the tree crashed to earth.  
  
Guybrush dropped the axe. He picked up the trunk, and with a  
loud series of heaves, began pulling it around onto the bog.  
Pushing and pulling with all his might, Guybrush was able to  
line up the trunk with the sign in the middle. The gap was  
bridged.  
  
Shovel in hand, a freely sweating Guybrush crossed the gap. The  
tree trunk, though it was soft and weak, was also wide, and it  
held under his weight. With relief he stepped onto the dry soil  
in the middle.  
  
The sign came out of the ground at the first pull - it was in  
his way - and Guybrush began digging. It was absurdly easy work.  
The dirt was so soft and damp it just about leapt out of the  
ground as he dug.   
  
Two feet down the shovel struck wood. Guybrush knelt down and  
brushed away soil. He could feel the edges of a wooden chest,  
reinforced with brass - a fairly small chest, at that. Guybrush  
was able to grasp its edges and lever it out of the ground.  
  
The antique guy might be interested in this.  
  
===  
  
The antique guy, standing behind the counter, glared  
suspiciously at Guybrush as he entered. The glare melted away  
instantly, however, when Guybrush dropped a small dirty chest on  
the counter.  
  
"Wow!" enthused the antique guy. "The treasure of Bony Legs  
Pedro! You found it!" And beneath the enthusiasm, he was  
thinking: I can shortchange this guy and make up for the stuff  
he undoubtedly stole.  
  
As if on cue, Guybrush asked, "How much is it worth?"  
  
"How much?" The antique guy crossed his eyes, as if in deep  
thought, as indeed he was - how much could he fleece off this  
guy? "I'll give you a thousand pieces of eight," he said.  
  
That was exactly enough to pay the ship captain. "Done," said  
Guybrush with a smile.   
  
The antique guy beamed back. He handed over the money - a  
thousand gold pieces in a single hessian sack. "Nice working  
with you," he said. "Come back anytime."  
  
Guybrush left.  
  
The antique guy restrained an urge to shout. What a killing!  
  
===  
  
In high spirits, Guybrush boarded the ship.  
  
The ship captain was still about, standing on deck and looking  
at him as if he didn't expect very much. Guybrush changed that  
by handing over the money. He loved the way that made people's  
expressions change.  
  
Not only the captain's expression, but his whole personality  
changed. "All right, mon!" he said, breaking into Jamaican.  
"Consider my ship chartered!"  
  
"That was Monkey Island II," said Guybrush impatiently.  
  
The ship captain blinked. "Er... really? Sorry... don't know  
what came over me then. Let's cast off!"  
  
===  
  
PART 2: ISLAND  
  
===  
  
It was late evening in the Cutlass Island monastery. Torchlight  
illuminated the many passages and featureless wooden hallways,  
which were all bereft of people. No monks or devout students  
walked the passages. The rooms were silent. The whole place was  
bathed in an eerie stillness.  
  
It all depressed the young acolyte, who walked down the passages  
seeing no-one, hearing no-one. The acolyte was something of a  
changed man. He used to walk around in brown robes and shaven  
head, a featureless young student. Now he wore horrible green  
trousers, large black false eyebrows, and walked with a hunch  
bringing at least half a foot off his height.  
  
It was all that Monk's fault, reflected the acolyte glumly.  
Everything had gone wrong since that day when everybody had gone  
off and left him and the Monk. When the acolyte had gone to see  
the Monk a second time, he had a huge black beard and eyes that  
*glared* with a fierce green light. More strangely, he insisted  
on being called LeChuck. And, strangest of all, he insisted on  
calling the *acolyte*, him, Largo.  
  
The acolyte didn't know who this Largo character was, but wished  
he'd at least had better taste in trousers.  
  
But that had only been the beginning. The Monk had immediately  
assumed total control over the Monastery. And things had only  
gotten worse since then...  
  
The acolyte came to an intersection of passages, and here was  
the one person he didn't want to meet. The Monk.   
  
If you'd known the Monk before his metamorphosis, you would not  
recognise the figure now in front of the acolyte, not with his  
huge black beard, filthy pirate hat, and shabby brown clothes  
that looked like they'd been stolen from a hobo. You would not  
have recognised the mannerisms - the threatening lean forward as  
he harangued a subordinate, the spray of spittle that flew from  
his lips as he talked, the spasmodic wave of the hands. And you  
certainly wouldn't have recognised the voice - a cracked, bitter  
thing barely kept in control.  
  
"Arr!" the Monk now said. "How goes it?"  
  
The acolyte swallowed. "Um, Mr.- er, I mean, LeChuck Sir,  
everything is as you wanted it. The last pirate came in several  
hours ago."  
  
The Monk looked satisfied. "Excellent. Now I command every  
pirate on this island. My army of ghost pirates shall sweep the  
Caribbean like a hurricane. You will be well rewarded for this,  
Largo."  
  
The acolyte protested, "My name's not-"  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
===  
  
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, Guybrush's ship had  
just come into dock and the captain wasn't happy. Guybrush was  
down on the pier, but the captain was staying on deck.  
  
"...so I'll probably be two hours, three at the most," finished  
Guybrush. "Will you wait for me?"  
  
The captain looked around forebodingly. He'd been to Cutlass  
Island many times before, but this time it felt different. There  
was a chill in the night air, and a strange silence over the  
town.   
  
"I don't know," said the captain slowly. "I'm not sure I like  
the look of this place." Staying or not, there was no way he was  
getting off this ship, that was for sure.  
  
"It's only two hours!" said Guybrush. "What could happen?"  
  
"Er..." The ship captain sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.  
"Well, I guess you're right. I'll just-"  
  
The ship captain stopped talking in mid-sentence. Tiny pieces of  
paper were fluttering down from the sky, making noiseless  
landings on the deck. The ship captain's brow furrowed as he  
bent down and picked up one of the pieces.  
  
"Now what's this?" he said.  
  
Guybrush winced. The size and shape and, indeed, method of  
arrival of these scraps of paper were familiar. If they said  
what he thought they said...  
  
The ship captain read, and all the doubt seemed to clear from  
his face. "I see," he said neutrally.  
  
"Wait a second-" pleaded Guybrush.  
  
But he was too late. With two knife slashes the captain severed  
the rope holding the ship. Helped by an offshore breeze, the  
ship rapidly sailed away, soon lost from sight over the dark sea.  
  
"Darn. He could have waited two hours!" said Guybrush, not  
unreasonably. "Now I've got to find LeChuck all by myself. And I  
don't even know where he is!"   
  
He looked around hopefully. No LeChuck. Nobody, in fact, could  
be seen, heard, or smelt. And this worried Guybrush. If he knew  
anything about pirate towns, they were seething pits of  
activity, places that never slept, the kinds of town you could  
smell fifty miles away with a good breeze.   
  
Guybrush began walking along the pier, toward the centre of  
town. Small, apathetic waves slapped into the wooden poles.  
There were no ships docked here, just a tiny rowboat on a  
pulley. Guybrush hoped he wouldn't have to use it to get back  
home.   
  
The pier ended, and Guybrush found himself standing on the  
cobblestones of the main street. It ran left and right along the  
beach, and another street intersected it in the middle, forming  
a T-intersection.   
  
"Where is everybody?" said Guybrush. "It's like a ghost town  
here."  
  
If you were looking for a pirate on Cutlass, this would be the  
place to start. On his left Guybrush saw the Bloody Leech pub, a  
two-storey shanty of rotting tinderwood that looked very  
popular. Next to it was the flash Swingin' Stan's Sword Store,  
and on his right was Pirates 'R' Us clothing. All three  
buildings were quiet, and unlit.  
  
This isn't looking good, thought an uneasy Guybrush. What had  
LeChuck done as Mayor?  
  
As he was thinking these worrying thoughts, he heard a faint  
noise. Guybrush stopped, and listened.   
  
Yes, there it was, in the distance. It sounded like machinery.  
  
Guybrush followed the noise. It led him through the deserted  
streets of the town, back toward the shore. The noise got louder  
but Guybrush still had no idea what it might be.  
  
Presently he saw the source of the noise. On a lonely, deserted  
pier, someone was standing beside a huge machine, which was  
hurling small pieces of paper into the air. These pieces of  
paper didn't drift back down, but kept on going, wafted upward  
by warm currents of air, until they were lost from sight.   
  
This solved the mystery of those pieces of paper falling from  
the sky, Guybrush realised. And as he stepped onto the pier, he  
finally recognised who the someone was. The giggling, pantless  
someone.  
  
"Herman Toothrot!" Guybrush said, startled.  
  
Herman turned. His face lit up. "Ah! The dignitaries have  
arrived!"  
  
"What?" said Guybrush, confused.  
  
"You look a bit scruffy, but a good suit and a shave should take  
care of that," said Herman. "Come on, we haven't got much time.  
The function starts at twelve!"  
  
"What *are* you talking about, Herman?"  
  
Now Herman looked puzzled. "Aren't you here to welcome and pay  
homage to LeChuck on behalf of your Governor?"  
  
"What? No! I'm here to kick his reincarnated skull into  
oblivion!" said Guybrush forcefully.  
  
Herman looked thoughtful. "You are? You should have booked."  
  
"What are you doing here, Herman?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"Me?" said Herman rhetorically. "I *live* here. Well, not*  
here*. In a tumbledown shack two thousand miles across the  
ocean, actually. But I'm sure a high-minded civic individual  
like myself should have no trouble getting a green card."  
  
This steady stream of nonsense from Herman was starting to give  
Guybrush a headache. "No, what are you *doing* here?"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Why are you distributing all these notices with 'LECHUCK IS  
GOVERNOR' on them?"  
  
Herman looked relieved. "Oh that! Thought you were talking about  
my sinus problem. Well, for some reason there aren't any ships  
left to sail the Caribbean and announce LeChuck's Governorship.  
So, being the high-minded civic individual I am, I've taken that  
duty on board. Heh heh heh," he added, under his breath.  
  
Well, thought Guybrush, at least I've found somebody. Possibly  
the worst person in the world to get information from, but at  
least I can try. "Where is everybody?" he asked.  
  
"You know, it's strange," said Herman. "Just over the last few  
days everybody's been heading up to the Monastery on the far  
side of the island. I never go there myself... had a few  
disagreements with the Head Monk, know what I mean?" Herman  
winked at Guybrush. "He actually believes a non-Cartesian  
entropy field implies an eternal period of creation!"   
  
Guybrush, not having a clue what Herman was saying, said  
nothing. "But everyone else seems to like him fine," continued  
Herman. "Nobody's come back from there, at all. Too busy with  
the non-stop carousing, I expect."  
  
"Hmmm..." said Guybrush thoughtfully. This was an important clue.  
  
"You know," said Herman hopefully, "if you're not too busy, I  
might ask a favour."  
  
"What?" said Guybrush.  
  
"I'm running out of paper," said Herman. "Could you get some for  
me?"  
  
"What'll you give me in return?"  
  
Herman made a sour face. "Hah. That'd be right. Couldn't  
possibly put yourself out for the betterment of a fellow human  
being, could you? Altruism's not in *our* dictionary, is it?  
Well, if *that's* how it is, if you bring me some paper I'll  
give you  
  
a wooden spoon."  
  
Guybrush wasn't sure if this was a joke or not. "A wooden spoon?"  
  
"Yes. Quite good quality! Previous owner was a little old lady  
who only took it out of the cupboard once a week to make  
bread-and-butter pudding. Heh."  
  
"Okay..." said Guybrush slowly, backing away from Herman. Herman  
turned his attention back to the machine, and made faint  
giggling sounds under his breath.  
  
Eventually, after a long tense backwards walk, Guybrush reached  
the end of the pier. He wiped his brow and immediately proceeded  
to get out of Herman's sight. Soon he was lost in the centre of  
town.   
  
Guybrush was also lost in thought. He had to find a monastery.  
Apart from the information that it was 'on the other side of the  
island', Guybrush didn't have a clue where to begin. He'd never  
been on Cutlass before, never even seen a map of the place. As  
he walked through the dark, silent streets, Guybrush pondered  
the problem. Find a mountain and look around? It was dark. Ask  
directions? Who?  
  
He didn't see the small figure until he was nearly on top of him.  
  
Guybrush's meanderings had brought him through the main part of  
the town, to the outer perimeter. The street he was currently in  
kept on going, past the houses, turning itself into a dirt road  
leading into the island. Though most of the town was behind him,  
there was a large shop on his right, called the _Bazaar of the  
Bizarre_. Standing in front of it, staring intently at the front  
door, was Wally.  
  
The shock of recognition caused Guybrush to speak before he  
could think. "I must be dreaming. It's Wally!"  
  
Wally turned around and saw Guybrush. His eyes, one hidden  
behind a monocle, betrayed no discernible emotion. "Hello, Mr  
Brush," he said.  
  
On paper it sounded perfectly neutral. But there was a lot of  
history behind that greeting, and now Guybrush remembered it. A  
long and very convoluted string of events had led to Wally being  
imprisoned in LeChuck's Carnival of the Damned. Guybrush had  
promised to free him, but what with one thing and another, he  
never really got around to it...  
  
This was an awkward situation. Guybrush tried his best. "Great  
to see you, pal!" he said heartily. "Glad to see you escaped  
from that evil carnival after I..." he quickly pulled up from  
that chain of thought, "...heh heh, yeah."  
  
Wally said quietly, "Someday everybody will pay."  
  
There was a tiny pause. Wally blinked, and then he seemed to be  
back to his normal self - the cheerful kid cartographer who  
never knew when he was in out of his depth.  
  
"Um, so what are you doing here, Wally?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"I'm picking up my life of crime where I left off," said Wally.  
"It's a bit strange really. Yesterday I was back on Scabb, when  
I got this sudden urge to visit Cutlass. There are rumours that  
the Bazaar of the Bizarre holds the last remaining set of  
Blackbeard's treasure maps."  
  
"Really?" asked an interested Guybrush.  
  
"But they're said to be really well guarded," continued Wally.  
"So I wasn't going to do anything, but then some fliers landed  
on my doorstep which said LeChuck was governor and people were  
being turned into slavering zombies. I wanted a piece of the  
action, so I chartered Dread and sailed over."  
  
"So what's happening now?"  
  
"At the moment," said Wally, "I'm breaking the door down."  
  
Four seconds passed. Guybrush and Wally looked at each other.  
  
"Um, pardon me for intruding," said Guybrush eventually, "but  
how exactly are you going to break down this door?"  
  
"Well, 'break' is probably a bit strong," admitted Wally, still  
looking at Guybrush. "I'm wearing this door down. Through sheer  
eye power. I reckon it's close to cracking."  
  
"That doesn't sound like a very effective way," said Guybrush  
critically. "And shouldn't you be staring *at* the door?"  
  
Wally stared at Guybrush. His eyebrows narrowed, as his face  
took on a look of total concentration.   
  
Nothing was happening.  
  
"Wilt, damn you!" exclaimed Wally. "Wilt!"  
  
Guybrush tried to keep a look of polite befuddlement on his  
face. He wanted to break out laughing, but this was just too  
*sad*...  
  
After a few more seconds, Wally gave up. He blinked at Guybrush  
in surprise. "Wow! You're good. If you can fight as good as you  
can stare, I might let you tag along."  
  
"What an honour!" said Guybrush.  
  
"You said it," said Wally. "Now, back to work." He looked back  
at the door, effectively ending the conversation.  
  
Guybrush looked around. There, on the roadside, was a sign:  
'Cutlass Island Interior.'   
  
Well, he might not know where he was going, but a road was a  
good start.  
  
Guybrush set out.  
  
===  
  
Though he didn't know anything about the interior of Cutlass  
Island, Guybrush was finding quite a lot out now.   
  
At first the road he took led upward through sloping, grazed  
hills, to a high crest above the town. Looking around from this  
peak, Guybrush hadn't been able to see a single house light. The  
terrain before him sloped down into a dark jungle valley, before  
rising again on the far side to pine forested hills.   
  
The road led downward, into the jungle. And this was where it  
started to get difficult. On the open plains, the light of the  
full moon had served fairly well to illuminate his surroundings.  
Under the jungle canopy, it was nearly pitch dark. About the  
only light came from fireflies and phospherent insects that  
swooped overhead and chirped in the distance. Low-lying vines,  
invisible in the dark, continually struck Guybrush. His feet  
began sinking into jungle mud, which either meant the jungle was  
turning into a swamp, or he'd lost the road.  
  
Eventually, a dirty, stumbling Guybrush came to a slightly  
thinner area of jungle. The barest of moonlight shone down, so  
that Guybrush could see a tumbledown shack not far off in the  
distance.  
  
The ground was nearly liquid under his feet. Taking the time to  
spy out tussocks of grass, Guybrush hopped toward his  
destination.   
  
Soon he stood in front of the porch. Four thick stilts supported  
the hut several feet above the swamp, so that the bottom of the  
door was about at Guybrush's eye level. A small rickety ladder  
was bolted to one side of the porch. "Wonder who lives here..."  
he thought aloud, "...wonder if *anybody* lives here." It didn't  
look likely. The place was falling to bits in front of his eyes.  
But there was something... through those grimy windows, behind  
the faded red moth-eaten curtains, there seemed to be a faint  
green glow.  
  
Guybrush dismissed this. There was one out of place detail here,  
a large vending machine on the swampy ground in front of the  
porch. It too looked a little rusty. Guybrush had had some nasty  
experiences with vending machines, so he didn't give it any  
closer attention.  
  
Guybrush quickly thought. Inhabited or not, he needed a break to  
get his bearings back. He tried the ladder. The first rung was  
so rotten it broke as soon as his foot touched it. So did the  
second. In the end Guybrush ignored the ladder altogether and  
just climbed straight up on the porch.   
  
Some floorboards sagged, but they held. Guybrush walked to the  
front door and pulled it open.  
  
An old, eldritch smell drifted out. Guybrush's nose wrinkled.  
About what he'd expected. He edged forward into the darkness.  
  
But it wasn't completely dark. There were candles on the floor,  
and several hanging from the ceiling... candles that glowed with  
a green fiery light.  
  
Then, like a picture coming into focus, Guybrush adjusted to the  
light, and saw everything.  
  
The floor was bare. The walls, however, were plastered with  
illustrated parchments of strange, possibly illegal diagrams.  
Several stuffed animals hung from the ceiling, swinging in the  
warm air.  
  
In the middle of the room, sitting on her green voodoo throne,  
on a Mexican throw rug, was the Voodoo Lady.  
  
Guybrush screamed.  
  
"What?" said the Voodoo Lady, surprised.   
  
"Oh no, not you!" wailed Guybrush. "Not again! No!"  
  
"Guybrush Threep-"  
  
Guybrush ignored her. Could he never escape his past? Every time  
he'd thought he'd succeeded, another bit character from the  
Monkey Island series returned. Seeing Wally and Herman had  
started it off, but now a whole wave of existential despair was  
crashing home. "How'd you get here?" he babbled crazily. "What  
are you *doing* here? God, it's like some evil curse! I can't  
get away!"  
  
"I have come, Guybrush," said the Voodoo Lady patiently, "to do  
battle with our arch-nemesis, LeChuck."  
  
"No," said Guybrush, flatly.  
  
The Voodoo Lady was confused again. "What?"  
  
Guybrush crossed his arms. "I said *no*. I'm not doing it.  
Whatever it is you want me to do. Count me out." He waited for a  
brief while, but the Voodoo Lady didn't say anything. "And  
nothing you can say," continued Guybrush, "is going to change my  
mind."  
  
"Have you wondered where all the townspeople are, Guybrush?"  
said the Voodoo Lady.  
  
This was an unexpected response. "Um..." said Guybrush,  
"...well, I had wondered about that, actually."  
  
Five seconds passed. Guybrush was waiting for the Voodoo Lady to  
speak, but she just looked at him. For some strange reason, this  
felt like a contest of wills. To speak now might have dire  
consequences.  
  
"So, what happened to them?" Guybrush finally asked.  
  
"There is an old monastery on the promontory," said the Voodoo  
Lady. She looked satisfied. "Nobody paid it any attention, until  
two weeks ago. Some pirates left the town and went to the  
monastery. They were followed by others. And none returned."  
  
"You mean everybody's gone?" Guybrush said.   
  
"Well, there's a family of Survivalists in the forest," said the  
Voodoo Lady, "but apart from them, this island has been scoured  
clean."  
  
"What happened to everybody?"  
  
"LeChuck has killed them all," said the Voodoo Lady.  
  
Guybrush grimaced. "Ick."  
  
"Now he's assembled the largest ghost crew the world has ever  
seen, up in the monastery. With it he'll be unstoppable."  
  
A few details were nagging away at Guybrush. "I thought LeChuck  
was Governor."  
  
"Oh, that's just some idea of Herman's," said the Voodoo Lady  
dismissively. "Ignore him."  
  
"But how did he escape the ice?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"I don't know," admitted the Voodoo Lady. "He may have access to  
some new form of Voodoo magic: something I won't be able to  
counter." She looked almost embarrassed by this.  
  
Guybrush could see where this conversation was heading, but he  
first wanted to straighten a few things out. "So why aren't you  
out there fighting LeChuck?" he asked.  
  
The Voodoo Lady looked sharply at him. "It's not that easy. I  
arrived here yesterday, and he's sealed the monastery and the  
peninsula off from the outside world with a huge force field. I  
can't get near. Unless," and here her voice grew deep and  
stentorian, "I can cast the Spell of Synchromesh."  
  
"The Spell of Synchromesh?" said Guybrush dubiously. "Sounds  
like something from a bad RPG."  
  
"It's a very esoteric spell, and I forgot to bring all my voodoo  
essentials. I shall require you to find some special  
ingredients."  
  
"I think I saw this coming," muttered Guybrush. He sighed. "All  
right, what are they?"  
  
The Voodoo Lady smiled with satisfaction. "First, you must find  
me a monkey skull."  
  
"Easy," said Guybrush.  
  
"The second ingredient is harder," cautioned the Voodoo Lady. "A  
very rare herb called Talbad."  
  
"Sounds like an Arabian pirate," said Guybrush.   
  
"I'm all out," continued the Voodoo Lady, "and there's only one  
place on this island that stocks it. The Bazaar of the Bizarre.  
Before you came I tried to summon a mighty pirate to ransack the  
place, but it didn't quite work out. Now it is up to you.  
  
"Here's the key," said the Voodoo Lady. She held a small metal  
object out to Guybrush, who took it. "And take this map. You may  
need it." She gave him a rolled up parchment.  
  
"Gee, thanks," said Guybrush.  
  
"Thank me later," said the Voodoo Lady. "Now, go!"  
  
===  
  
Standing outside the hut, Guybrush thought about what to do next.  
  
He knew where to get some Talbad, and he had the key, but  
Guybrush didn't feel like seeing Wally just yet. So that left  
the monkey skull. Guybrush wasn't worried about this item.  
  
Off the shoreline of the main Cutlass township was a small  
offshore island, mostly rock. Up until a year ago, it had housed  
the Cutlass Monkey Enclosure.  
  
Pirates have never been very fond of monkeys. Parrots maybe,  
although the price of a parrot eternally perched on your  
shoulder was a hefty laundry bill. No, pirates have never liked  
monkeys. In the opinion of the pirates, monkeys are good for  
nothing, a nuisance, and they tend to pinch your hat while  
you're digging up buried treasure.  
  
So when the Monkey Enclosure opened on this small offshore  
islands, the pirates didn't come to look. Oh no. They came to  
gawk. To throw small pebbles and peanuts at the caged monkeys.  
To prod them with pointy sticks. To dangle large bunches of  
bananas outside the cage and then pointedly throw them away. To  
suspend the monkeys above dunk tanks and then throw balls at the  
trigger. To shoot revolvers at their feet and shout 'Dance!'.  
To... etc, etc.  
  
Sometimes pirates can be really downright mean.  
  
Guybrush heard all this from the ship captain, as they passed  
the small island on their way to the main pier. He could see the  
cages from the deck - they were rusted out and empty. When the  
captain had finished speaking, Guybrush asked: so why did it  
close down?  
  
The captain told him. Apparently, Elaine Marley had gotten wind  
of the Monkey Enclosure and was horrified. In no uncertain  
terms, she told the Cutlass authorities that if the enclosure  
wasn't shut down immediately, she'd move to a distant island and  
become a hermit, forever removing herself from public affairs.  
Within two hours, every caged monkey was free and roaming  
Cutlass.  
  
Ironically, in their place the pirates left large bunches of  
bananas.  
  
From the captain's tale, Guybrush had gathered there were a lot  
of monkey corpses still lying around. Now, standing in the  
marshy land around the Voodoo Lady's hut, all he had to think of  
was a way to get to the island. This wasn't a problem either, as  
Guybrush could clearly remember seeing a rowboat tied to the  
pier where the captain had docked.  
  
So Guybrush wasn't feeling too bad as he stood in front of the  
Voodoo Lady's hut. Now he gave the vending machine a closer  
look, and saw that it was a Voodoo Vending Machine, built to  
dispense all sorts of voodoo goodies. Guybrush saw bats wings  
and monkey droppings on the list. It was all moot though, as a  
large 'OUT OF ORDER' sign was draped over the top of the  
machine. Not really expecting anything, Guybrush pressed the  
coin return button.  
  
A large gold coin spilled out the coin return shute and  
disappeared into the swamp with a 'glop'.   
  
Guybrush shrugged his shoulders, and started the journey back to  
town.  
  
===  
  
About an hour later Guybrush was back in town, standing on the  
pier in front of a small rowboat.  
  
It had seemed simple, but then nothing was simple for Guybrush.  
He'd found the rowboat all right - it was at the pier where the  
ship captain had docked, and was strung up above the sea by a  
complicated pulley system. The pulleys, Guybrush soon found,  
were completely rusted, and refused to budge.  
  
He needed some lubricant. Guybrush thought about this a bit,  
then went to find Herman. When he got there, Guybrush saw an oil  
can in front of Herman's machine.  
  
Herman was absorbed in his work, and didn't notice a silent,  
creeping Guybrush steal up behind and take the oil can.  
  
The oil can, nearly full, freed up the pulley system. With a  
little effort, Guybrush was able to lower the rowboat into the  
sea.  
  
Phew. After that effort, he was half-expecting a search for a  
pair of oars, but there were two lying in the bottom of the  
boat. Guybrush climbed down, picked up the oars, and pulled the  
boat out to sea.  
  
The sea was strangely calm. Barely any waves at all, no wind,  
and no perceptible current. It was almost spooky, except it made  
Guybrush's task a lot easier. He could see the offshore island  
in front of him, not far off, now partly overgrown with trees  
and vegetation.  
  
Getting there took about twenty minutes of rowing. Coming to the  
island, Guybrush found a small jetty, just large enough for a  
couple of boats. He anchored the boat and climbed out. A set of  
wooden steps led up through a thin patch of jungle, then came  
out at a metal gate.  
  
At the metal gate, Guybrush had to stop.  
  
There was a lot of stuff to take in. On his left, hanging from a  
tree branch, was the sign.   
  
CUTLASS ISLAND MONKEY ENCLOSURE  
ADULTS 4 pieces of eight, KIDS 2 pieces of eight.  
Animal liberationists and RSPCA representatives please piss off.  
  
Near the sign was a metal box, attached to the gate. The box  
held a coin slot.  
  
Guybrush looked through the gate. A straight concrete path  
stretched out in front of him. On either side were the cages.  
Small, grim and bare. Some had small dead branches. Others had  
bunches of bananas swinging from the wire ceiling. These were  
really starting to stink.  
  
Above all, he could see the skeletons. Two small, tiny skeletons  
hanging in the air. Many more huddled broken on the ground. And  
in one cage, sitting there on its own, was a shiny intact monkey  
skull. Guybrush knew, as soon as he saw it, that this was his  
goal.   
  
But how was he to get it? The monkey skull was inside one of the  
cages, and almost ten feet from the concrete path. There was a  
feeding slot near the base of the cage, large enough for the  
skull to pass through, but too small for Guybrush to reach in  
and take it.   
  
This was assuming he could even get inside the enclosure. No  
matter how hard he rattled the gate, it stayed closed. And after  
paying for the ride out here, Guybrush was again penniless.  
  
For a while Guybrush stood there, not willing to admit defeat.  
But finally he turned and started trudging down those wooden  
steps. It was time to rustle up some money.  
  
===  
  
About half an hour later...  
  
Guybrush was deep in the interior of Cutlass Island, on his way  
to the Voodoo Lady, when he had a thought.  
  
He stopped and took out the map the Voodoo Lady had given him.  
He'd been intending to return to the Voodoo Lady's hut so he  
could, well, break into the vending machine and steal some  
change.  
  
Now he looked at the map. The Survivalists' hut the Voodoo Lady  
had mentioned wasn't far from here. A detour wouldn't be much  
work, and Guybrush was curious. How come these people hadn't  
fallen prey to LeChuck?  
  
So he took a sharp veering right, into the mountains. The jungle  
and swamp were soon left behind, as he came into conifer  
territory. He walked over dead pine needles and tripped over  
pinecones.  
  
Then, he came to the hut.   
  
It was tucked away near a high rockface, in a slight clearing.  
From his first glimpse, Guybrush could see it was well built.  
Thick pine trunks were lashed together to form the walls, with  
the roof a shallow inverted 'V' above.   
  
But there was no light, and no smoke from the chimney.  
  
Guybrush came forward, noting various details. The front of the  
hut had no windows, just a thick barred door and a bare porch.  
On one side of the hut, which Guybrush was approaching, a large  
store of firewood was stacked up. Very large. Enough to last  
months. At the rear of the hut was a squat watertank. Also very  
large.  
  
He heard no noise as he approached, even though both windows on  
this side of the hut were open. Coming near, Guybrush saw a pole  
near one window, and he got an idea.  
  
It was a *long* pole. He didn't have anything else to get the  
monkey skull with. Why not take it?  
  
Guybrush was standing at the side of the house now. He could see  
no motion in those perfectly dark windows. Maybe the Voodoo Lady  
had been wrong.  
  
Guybrush reached for the pole.  
  
A light inside the hut flicked on. A shotgun was poked out of  
the window at Guybrush's head, and Guybrush found himself  
staring down twin metal barrels. He lifted his head a little and  
saw, holding the shotgun, a short middle-aged man.   
  
"Ulp!" said Guybrush.   
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled the man.  
"Leave that alone!"  
  
The gun barrel pointed at his head froze Guybrush up. "Ummm...  
I..." he stammered.  
  
As he did so, the angry look vanished from the man's face,  
replaced by an almost ecstatic joy. "Hey..." he said, as if just  
realising something. "You're a looter! We've got a looter!" He  
turned his head to shout to someone else in the room, "See, I  
was right, Midge! A looter! There must be looters everywhere!  
Cutlass Island is overrun with looters!" He sounded like he'd  
just won the lottery.  
  
The man looked back at Guybrush, and now his face was full of  
swaggering confidence. "So, looter, come to ransack our  
carefully prepared post-apocalypse shelter?"  
  
"I'm not a looter-"  
  
The man cut him off with a laugh. "Ha! That's what they all say.  
You just want to borrow our food stocks and have a lend of some  
gasoline and take turns with the generator, right? Well I didn't  
come down in the last shower, pal. You're a looter!"  
  
Guybrush said, "But I'm not-"  
  
"Save it, mate. I know your type. Wouldn't listen to me six  
months ago, would you? Laughed and went about your business,  
didn't you? Ha! The boot's on the other foot now, isn't it?  
Sucked in!"  
  
"I don't even live on Cutlass Island," said Guybrush. "I came  
here-"  
  
The man's grin grew wider. "So you're a foreign looter, are you!  
I knew it! Have the foresight to put away a bit of gas and food  
and next thing the whole Caribbean's breaking down your door!  
There must be scores of ships converging on Cutlass Island,  
ready to loot! Hear that, Midge?" he yelled to the unseen Midge.  
"Scores of 'em! And they're all crawling back here!" The man  
cackled with glee. Proven right at last!  
  
Guybrush took a deep breath.  
  
"I'M NOT A LOOTER!" he yelled.  
  
There was a pause. "...are you sure?" asked the man in a small  
voice.  
  
"YES!"   
  
The man looked at him doubtfully. "Actually, you don't look much  
like a looter. Shouldn't you have a flaming torch in one hand,  
or a rusty crowbar or something?"  
  
"I'M NOT A LOOTER!" yelled Guybrush again.   
  
"Okay, okay, no need to take that tone of voice," said the man.  
He pulled the shotgun back from the window. He looked at  
Guybrush again. "So, you're not a looter?"  
  
"NO!"   
  
"*Are* there any looters about?" asked the man hopefully.  
  
"I haven't seen any," said Guybrush.  
  
"Rats," said the man, looking down.  
  
He turned to the unseen occupant of the room - Midge, Guybrush  
guessed. "Sorry, Midge," said the man. "False alarm."  
  
Midge spoke up. The voice was low, and Guybrush couldn't hear  
the words, but he didn't need to. There was something about the  
tone - patient, long-suffering and quietly powerful - which got  
the message across very well.  
  
"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" said the man. "He comes  
barging in, stealing wooden poles..."  
  
Murmur, murmur, murmur, said Midge.  
  
"Yes, there *are* looters around," said the man.  
  
More murmuring from Midge.  
  
"I don't know, somewhere..." said the man vaguely. He was  
starting to cringe. This was obviously an old argument.  
  
"Yes, I *am* sure... " said the man.  
  
Guybrush realised the man was no longer looking at him. If he  
was quiet, he could steal the pole.  
  
"What do you mean I've been wrong before?"  
  
Guybrush knelt down and reached forward.  
  
"Don't start on that."  
  
His fingers touched the pole.  
  
"You're not still going on about *that*, are you?"  
  
They grasped it firmly.  
  
"That was ten years ago!"  
  
Guybrush concentrated.  
  
"You still can't get the stains out?"  
  
Slowly, carefully, Guybrush lifted the pole away from the wall.  
  
"No, we can't make a trip to the drycleaners. It's not safe! ...  
No, it isn't! ... Look, it bloody well isn't!"  
  
The man turned and glared at Guybrush, who hastily hid the pole  
behind his back. "What are you still doing here?" he yelled. No  
more good humour from him.  
  
"Er..."  
  
"Yes, you! Get out!"  
  
Guybrush nodded, and backed away. The man watched him, holding  
the shotgun meaningfully, until Guybrush was about fifty feet  
away, and lost in the darkness. Guybrush sighed with relief,  
turned around, and started the walk to the Voodoo Lady's.  
  
Well, at least that answered the question about the Survivalists.  
  
===  
  
Forty minutes later, Guybrush was back outside the Monkey  
Enclosure.  
  
He hadn't needed to break into the vending machine at all. When  
he tried the coin return button, it dispensed another gold coin.  
This happened the third time he used the button. Then,  
frustratingly, it packed up.   
  
Still, two gold coins would do, even if he meant he entered the  
Monkey Enclosure as a kid. Guybrush paid the two coins into the  
coin slot.  
  
The rusty latches on the gate flipped open. Guybrush picked up  
the pole and pushed his way into the Enclosure.  
  
The smell was worse in here. Guybrush didn't want to waste any  
time, so he went straight for the cage with the monkey skull. It  
took no time at all for him to knock the skull back with the  
pole, then bring it through the tiny latched opening.  
  
The skull was heavy in Guybrush's hands. Even as he picked it  
up, tiny scraps of shrivelled brain matter dropped to the  
ground. Guybrush wrinkled his nose.  
  
Well, disgusting or not, he had the first ingredient. Now to go  
after the second...  
  
===  
  
When Guybrush came to the Bazaar of the Bizarre, he found Wally  
still standing there on the street, still staring at the closed  
door. Wally's door-breaking technique was obviously not going  
well.   
  
Guybrush came up in front of Wally and reached for the door.  
Wally protested, "Hang on, I'm working on that door-"  
  
With a loud click, Guybrush unlocked the door.  
  
"Or we could do it your way," said Wally smoothly. Guybrush  
pushed the door open, and Wally followed him inside.  
  
It was dark in here. At first, Guybrush felt rather than saw his  
surroundings. He was standing on a long roll of thick carpet,  
and the air around them seemed very cramped. Then Wally moved  
inside, letting more light in, and gradually they began to make  
out details.  
  
The walls were lined with shelves, and every shelf was piled up  
to the rafters with junk. Pure junk. Mounds of it. When there  
wasn't room on the shelves, stuff was simply dumped on the  
floor, in huge compost piles. The only clear space in the whole  
room was an off-green roll of carpet, which led to a small door.   
  
Wally scampered across the carpet, and rattled the doorknob.  
"Locked," he said, disappointed.  
  
"What are you trying to do?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"This store is split up into three sections," said Wally. "Only  
the first two are accessible by the public, and this must be the  
first one. The maps will be in the last room - if they're here  
at all."  
  
*And the jar of Talbad*, thought Guybrush. For no particular  
reason, he was worried. Sure, LeChuck seemed to have gotten rid  
of every single person on the island, but what if the  
proprietors of the Bazaar were still here? Waiting for them?  
Even with a key, this felt too much like breaking in. Plus,  
there was Wally's talk of booby traps to consider...  
  
He joined Wally by the closed door. No luck - the key didn't fit  
the lock. Guybrush sighed, then kicked the door. It rattled, but  
the lock held.   
  
Wally stepped forward. "I'll take care of this," he said  
confidently. He stood in front of the door, and stared.  
  
Guybrush groaned, and turned away.   
  
Something caught his eye.  
  
Guybrush slowly looked around. Yes, there it was, on the edge of  
the largest pile of junk. A cannon.  
  
The idea arrived almost simultaneously in Guybrush's mind. A  
cannon. Was there a cannonball? He felt around in the barrel,  
but there was nothing in there. A quick search of the pile of  
junk, however, soon turned up a small battered cannonball.  
  
A cannonball. Was there gunpowder? Guybrush searched the shelves  
until he found a box of low-grade gunpowder. Wally, oblivious to  
all this, was still staring determinedly at the door.  
  
Now Guybrush arranged things. He dragged the cannon onto the  
carpet and lined it up with the door. In went the gunpowder, and  
cannonball. Using a small length of string, Guybrush fashioned a  
fuse. He still had matches from Booty Island, so without further  
ado Guybrush lit the fuse.  
  
He'd altogether forgotten about Wally. Hearing the faint hiss of  
the fuse (or possibly seeing a slight glimmer of yellow on the  
door) Wally turned around. He said, "Hey, did you-"  
  
The cannon exploded.  
  
===  
  
"Okay, okay. I *said* I'm sorry. Now can we please just drop the  
subject?"  
  
Wally coughed. "You're just lucky I move fast, Mister Brush."   
  
Gradually the smoke cleared. The door was a splintered wreck,  
and standing beside it was a very dusty Wally. Some of his hair  
was singed, and his face looked very red.  
  
Hesitantly, Guybrush knocked the last of the broken door panels  
away. It was definitely breaking and entering now. They climbed  
through the gap and into the second room.  
  
This room was clearer, with shelves stocked adequately instead  
of overflowing, and the floor kept relatively clean. Unlike the  
last room, the stock seemed to be at least nominally useful, but  
unfortunately it was all Voodoo material. Guybrush knew Voodoo  
magic to be immensely powerful. He also knew, after some very  
horrific Voodoo experiences over the past few years, that he  
didn't want to have anything to do with it. Even the tiny Voodoo  
dolls that looked somewhat like LeChuck didn't interest him.   
  
There didn't seem to be any Talbad in here, either.   
  
"So, is this it?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"No, we have to go through one more door," said Wally.  
  
"Let me guess: it's locked too."  
  
Wally was already examining the door on the far side. "It is.  
How did you know?"  
  
"Lucky guess," said Guybrush resignedly. He came forward and  
bent down by the door. "Hey, Wally! You missed something. The  
key's still in the lock."  
  
Wally rushed forward excitedly. "It is?"  
  
"Yeah," agreed Guybrush. "On the other side."  
  
Wally looked disgusted, and turned away. Guybrush, however, was  
thinking. With something thin and long, he could poke that key  
out of there.   
  
Guybrush stood up and looked over the shelves. Before too long  
he came to a small cardboard box, full of voodoo pins ("Extra  
long for extra pain!" announced the writing on the side). He  
took one, and returned to the door.  
  
Now... he couldn't just poke the key out, as then it would fall  
to the floor on the far side of the door and be lost forever. If  
he could get something to catch it...  
  
Guybrush stood up again. On a shelf to his right, he saw what he  
wanted - a stack of paper. Guybrush picked up a sheet. He loved  
clean white paper. This stuff looked like it had gone mouldy.  
  
He slid the piece of paper three-quarters of the way under the  
door. With a tiny jiggle, the pin dislodged the key. It fell  
onto the paper. Guybrush dragged the paper back, and there was  
the key. Textbook really.  
  
"Got it!" he said to Wally. Wally came rushing back. He seemed  
to be fully over his cannoning near miss, and the flush in his  
cheeks was one of excitement.   
  
Guybrush stood up, and unlocked the door.  
  
===  
  
The third and final room in the Bazaar of the Bizarre was a  
light, airy storeroom.   
  
There wasn't much here. A few notices tacked to the walls, a  
rickety spice rack hanging from a nail, two skylights in the  
ceiling letting thin beams of moonlight in, and a flat wooden  
table right in the middle of the room.   
  
On the table was a coffin. It was placed so that most of the  
moonlight fell on it, as if a spotlight was trained on the spot.  
  
Guybrush stayed by the door. He wanted to examine that table  
closer... one half seemed to disappear completely into darkness,  
and the table itself was so thin as to be little more than an  
elongated bench.   
  
But Wally, as he always did, rushed ahead. "It's here!" he  
gushed. "I've found it!" Wally came to the table and flung the  
coffin lid off. It clattered noisily on the wooden floor. He  
started rummaging around inside, but his short body and stumpy  
arms weren't up to the task, so he simply climbed up and fell  
into the coffin.  
  
There was a tiny pause. "Wally?" said Guybrush.  
  
Wally's head reappeared. One hand was held aloft triumphantly,  
and in it Guybrush could see a set of fiercely clenched maps.   
  
"Sorry, Mr. Brush," said the grinning Wally, "but this is where  
we part ways. I'm not letting anybody in on my moment of glory.  
Now get out of my way, so I can-"  
  
His speech was cut short as the coffin was simply hurled up into  
the air. It crashed straight through the roof without stopping,  
leaving a vague dark hole. Guybrush heard a thin scream, very  
quickly growing faint, and at the end a tiny 'splash'.  
  
Guybrush stepped forward. Now that the hole in the roof was  
letting in more moonlight, he could see the dim end of the  
table. There was a complicated array of tightly wound pulleys,  
ropes and spoked wheels. It dawned on Guybrush what this was.  
Not a table at all, but a cleverly disguised catapult!  
  
"Whoops. Guess he forgot about those traps," said Guybrush,  
shaking his head.   
  
He took another look around the room. That spice rack on the  
wall looked hopeful, and on closer inspection Guybrush saw a  
small jar of Talbad. What was Talbad? As far as he could see, it  
was a thick, mustard-coloured herb.  
  
Well, this made it two ingredients. Time to go visit the Voodoo  
Lady.  
  
===  
  
About half an hour later, he was back inside the Voodoo Lady's  
makeshift hut.  
  
The Voodoo Lady looked sternly at him as he entered. "Have you  
found any of the ingredients?" she said.  
  
"I have this monkey skull," said Guybrush. He gave the heavy,  
dirt-encrusted thing to the Voodoo Lady, who looked satisfied.  
  
"Good work," she said. "Do you have the final ingredient?"  
  
"I've also got this jar of Talbad," said Guybrush, handing over  
the jar.  
  
The Voodoo Lady set both ingredients down on the floor.  
"Perfect." She drew herself up impressively. "Now, I can-"  
  
She stopped.  
  
"Oh dear," she said.  
  
"What?" said Guybrush.  
  
"I forgot my voodoo stirring spoon," said the Voodoo Lady.  
  
Guybrush sighed. "That would be typical."  
  
"Hey, I told you I forgot to bring everything. Without some kind  
of spoon, I just can't create the spell."  
  
"All right, I get the message," said Guybrush. "One spoon coming  
up."  
  
===  
  
He was getting mighty sick of this half-hour,  
stumble-through-muddy-bogs-and-steep-rises walk from the Voodoo  
Lady's hut to the main town, but at least it gave him time to  
think. Where to get a spoon from? He didn't remember seeing one  
at the Bazaar.   
  
Then he remembered Herman's mad witterings, and his promise to  
give him a spoon if - Guybrush searched his memory - if he could  
find some paper.  
  
Guybrush quite specifically remembered there being paper at the  
Bazaar. So he went there first, and found a large stack in the  
second room. Carrying it in both hands, he went to see Herman.  
  
Herman was still standing by his machine, which was still  
pumping the 'LECHUCK IS GOVERNOR' flyers into the air - there  
was going to be a large cleanup bill when all this was over.   
  
He looked pleased to see Guybrush. "Paper!" he exclaimed. "Just  
in time."  
  
Guybrush dropped the paper down next to the machine.  
  
True to his word, Herman reached into a coat pocket and pulled  
out a spoon. "Here you go, sir, one barely-dented wooden spoon."   
  
Guybrush took it.  
  
Herman was already forgetting him. "Now I can get on with..."  
The sentence trailed off into random giggling.  
  
Guybrush didn't hear any of this - he was already on his way  
back.  
  
===  
  
What was this - the sixth or seventh time he'd been trudging  
through this swamp? Standing on the porch of the Voodoo Lady's  
hut, Guybrush was muddy up to the knees, sweat running down his  
back, flies and gnats buzzing around his head.  
  
Hopefully this would be the last time. If the Voodoo Lady wanted  
any more errands run... Guybrush ground his teeth thinking about  
it.  
  
He entered.  
  
The Voodoo Lady spoke up almost immediately. "Have you found a  
spoon?"  
  
"Here it is, check it out."  
  
The Voodoo Lady took the spoon and examined it closely.  
"Excellent." She dropped the spoon beside the ingredients. "At  
last, I can cast the spell of Synchromesh! I've been waiting to  
do this for ages. Stand back, Guybrush, and give me room!"  
  
Guybrush didn't need to be told twice. He backed up against the  
wall, as far from the Voodoo Lady as possible.  
  
She muttered some incomprehensible words, and the whole room  
went pitch black. A millisecond later, it flashed brilliantly  
with light. Then, the air around them began to throb and pulse  
with darkness and light - two separate entities - and dimly  
glimpsed at the centre of it all was the silhouette of the  
Voodoo Lady, her body jerking about spasmodically.  
  
"Aargh!" screamed the Voodoo Lady. "Ack! Yeeooow! Erk! Oooh!"  
The screams didn't sound like screams of pain, but like... the  
words of the spell.  
  
The screaming stopped. And slowly, as if someone was gradually  
turning up the current, the normal lighting returned. Guybrush  
took a couple of steps forward. The Voodoo Lady sat in her  
chair, perfectly composed. The ingredients, and the wooden  
spoon, were all gone.  
  
"Did it work?" asked Guybrush.  
  
"It worked. Even now I sense the gaping hole where the force  
field once was."  
  
"All right!" said Guybrush. He turned to leave.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Guybrush turned back. "You should not rush in there blindly,"  
said the Voodoo Lady. "I sense great danger."  
  
"I'm not worried."  
  
"LeChuck has turned the whole population of this island into  
ghosts."  
  
"Who cares about ghosts?" asked Guybrush. "I've got root beer."  
He tapped his pocket. Inside was a half-full bottle of root  
beer, by now uncomfortably warm, but still potent.  
  
"Don't put too much faith in your magical fluid," said the  
Voodoo Lady. "You may not have enough... for the whole  
population. Here - take this root beer recipe."  
  
She was holding a small scrap of paper out to Guybrush, who took  
it.  
  
"Makes large quantities," said the Voodoo Lady. "And take this  
too."  
  
She gave him a small unlabelled bottle.   
  
"Corn syrup," she explained. "You'll have to find the other  
ingredients yourself."  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
"Now, go!" urged the Voodoo Lady. "The fates of the Caribbean  
rest on your shoulders!"  
  
Guybrush bucked up. "Yeah, I guess they do! Look out LeChuck!"  
  
===  
  
PART 3: MONASTERY  
  
===  
  
In one of the myriad wooden passages of the Monastery of Small  
Footsteps, the Monk stood in his shabby pirate clothes and  
stained tricorner hat and brooded.  
  
Something was wrong. Something he couldn't quite put his finger  
on...  
  
It was in this state of undecided worry that the acolyte,  
wandering fearfully through the passages, found the Monk. He  
swallowed involuntarily - Ulp! - and the Monk turned around.  
  
"Largo!" he said sternly. "Have you strung up the ginger as I  
told ye to?"  
  
"Ummm," stammered the acolyte.  
  
In a patient voice that might quickly turn to anger, the Monk  
said, "I'm not going over this again, Largo. What is normally  
used to ward off the undead?"  
  
"Garlic?" said the acolyte.  
  
"And what's the total opposite of garlic?" continued the Monk.  
  
The acolyte, for the life of him, could not work out this step.  
"...ginger?" he ventured cautiously.  
  
"Yes! SO HAVE YOU STRUNG THE BLOODY STUFF UP YET?"  
  
"Oh yes, LeChuck sir," said the acolyte. "There's a large clump  
where all the pirates are waiting."  
  
The Monk relaxed slightly - but that wasn't it. Something else  
was wrong... the acolytehe dismissed the thought. "Good," said  
the Monk.. Now what was it you were going to say?"  
  
"Well," began the acolyte reluctantly, "there is one small  
thing."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Do I really have to wear this green trousers?" complained the  
acolyte. "And these false eyebrows are giving me a rash."  
  
"You will do exactly what I tell you to, Largo. Unless you'd  
like to be a ghost pirate yerself...?"  
  
The acolyte nodded hopelessly. "Green trousers it is, sir."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Er... actually there's something else too." The acolyte  
stopped. LeChuck was not going to like this.  
  
"...Yes?" prompted the Monk, after two seconds of waiting.  
  
The acolyte took a deep breath. "Ten of your ghost pirates have  
escaped and taken the ship and we haven't got anything to get  
after them with."  
  
There was a short pause.  
  
"WHAT?!?!" roared the Monk.  
  
"Ten of your-"  
  
"I HEARD! GET AFTER THEM! I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO SWIM THERE  
YERSELF! GET OUT THERE!"  
  
===  
  
In the shadow forest outside the Monastery, Guybrush stood and  
watched.  
  
After leaving the Voodoo Lady's presence, he'd gone north, via  
the route on her map. Traversing dim glades and wormy forests,  
he'd at last come up to a high rocky bluff overlooking the sea.  
And down below, on a small peninsula, was the Monastery.  
  
Even from this height, it loomed against the sky - which, owing  
to a thick cloud cover which had gathered together in the last  
few hours, was completely black. Numerous torches hung from the  
outer walls, burning with a bright orange flame. Their light  
allowed Guybrush to see the many carven wood statues and holy  
relics adorning the walls of the Monastery.  
  
Guybrush wondered why he hadn't been here before. Sure, the  
Voodoo Lady had told him there was a force field, but he'd never  
confirmed this. Did he trust the Voodoo Lady that much? Guybrush  
hoped not.  
  
He climbed down the steep incline to the beach and entered the  
peninsula.  
  
And, as he did so, found he was slowing down from his usual  
pace. The light from the Monastery made him cautious, as if he  
might be seen at any moment. He picked his route carefully,  
ducking from one shadowy patch to another.  
  
Finally, he stood at the very edge of the forest.  
  
The entrance to the Monastery was barely twenty feet away, a  
yawning black hole large enough to let someone three times his  
size enter.   
  
Guybrush hesitated. Inside, there were over a hundred ghost  
pirates, their very touch fatal. Even with root beer, it was a  
tall ask.  
  
Even as he hesitated, he remembered the argument. With Elaine.  
It seemed like four centuries ago, but actually only fourteen  
hours had passed. *Not a pirate*, she'd said. Well, he'd show  
her! New-found determination began to flow back into Guybrush.  
  
He stepped out of the forest, into the light, and crossed the  
clearing to the Monastery entrance.  
  
===  
  
Despite all the lit torches outside, Guybrush soon found himself  
in a dark, dank passage. A couple of candles dripped wax from  
the ceiling, but they just gave the air a grimy sheen. It almost  
felt like he was underground, in a mine.  
  
A set of wooden stairs was leading him down, to a concrete  
landing. Here Guybrush paused. There was something in front of  
him, a thin metal structure. Twin pipes, on either side of the  
passage, led up from the ground to a metal bar overhead. He had  
to pass through this metal arch, and its possible meaning  
baffled Guybrush.  
  
He shrugged, and walked through it.  
  
An alarm shrieked, and two red lights set in the ceiling above  
Guybrush flashed on and off. Guybrush looked around, panicked.  
And at this moment, Murray the demonic skull flew out of the  
passage in front of him, grinning inanely.  
  
"Aargh!" screamed Guybrush involuntarily.  
  
"Ha ha!" laughed Murray, elated at this response. "Yes! Boo!  
Gotcha now!"  
  
But Guybrush had recovered. He knew Murray, and he was not to be  
feared. "Oh, it's only Murray," he said after a short pause.  
  
"Whadda mean it's only Murray?!" yelled Murray indignantly.  
"I'll tear you limb from limb, you croquet-playing mint-muncher!"  
  
"No offence, Murray, but I think I'll just be walking through  
that door."  
  
"You *what!?* You'll be licking snowflakes in hell before you  
get through here!"  
  
A patient smile on his face, Guybrush walked forward. Or tried  
to. Guybrush frowned. It felt like there was something in his  
way, a thin strip of gauze in the air that he couldn't walk  
through.   
  
He looked up at Murray. The leering skull was enjoying  
Guybrush's futile struggles. "Ha ha ha! Weren't expecting that,  
were ya? This whole Monastery is protected by a force field  
which won't let a single drop of root beer through! We're  
impregnable!"  
  
"Oh dear," said Guybrush. Guess he'd been right not to trust the  
Voodoo Lady.  
  
"And even if you were to break through," continued Murray  
gleefully. "I've got a switch back here which will instantly  
summon two hundred plus ghost pirates to stitch you up proper!"  
  
"Oh dear again."  
  
Murray leaned forward, staring avidly at him. "Does that  
*frighten* you, Guybrush? Does it fill your pants with hot  
excrement? Yeah! Yeah! It does! All right!"  
  
Mostly to himself, Guybrush said, "This isn't going to be as  
easy as I thought."  
  
===  
  
He gathered his thoughts together outside. The Voodoo Lady  
hadn't been wrong, had she? Had be been traipsing all over  
Cutlass Island when he could just have come straight here?   
  
Well... the Voodoo Lady had said there was a force field  
protecting the whole peninsula. And he was on the peninsula. So  
maybe the spell *had* worked.  
  
And... Murray had said the force field only worked on root beer.  
What if he was to get rid of his root beer?  
  
Impossible. How could you take on two hundred ghost pirates with  
your bare hands?  
  
Guybrush remembered the root beer recipe.  
  
Instantly he took out the root beer bottle, opened it, and  
poured its contents onto the ground. There. No turning back now.  
  
But he couldn't go back in the front way, root beer or no root  
beer. Murray was watching.  
  
Perhaps there was a back entrance.  
  
Certainly there was a path. It led from the front entrance,  
tracing a winding route around the side of the Monastery.  
Following it, Guybrush came to a dark corner. Peering closely,  
he saw a small door set into the wall.  
  
Bingo.  
  
Before he tried the door, Guybrush took a look at the root beer  
recipe. In the flickering light of the torches, he read:  
  
===  
  
  
  
ROOT BEER  
1 qty. corn syrup  
1 qty. sassafras bark  
1 qty. orange peel  
1 qty. ground ginger.  
Combine all ingredients together with desired  
quantity of water. Churn.  
  
This could be problematic. He had the corn syrup, but...  
sassafras bark? Guybrush looked around.   
  
A spindly bush growing by the wall caught his eye. Its trunk had  
thin, stringy bark. Guybrush wouldn't know a sassafras tree from  
a lump of wood, but this looked about right. Beside, maybe you  
didn't have to get the flavour *exactly* right.  
  
He took a fistful of bark, then opened the door.  
  
===  
  
When he shut the door behind him, he was standing in a small  
study. There was a wooden desk in one corner, and a cupboard in  
another. An open door led out into a hallway. When he turned to  
look behind him, he saw a metal door with the words FIRE ESCAPE  
printed on them. Two torches illuminated the room. Guybrush  
stood and listened, but he could hear no noise.   
  
There was nothing on the desk. He opened the drawers, but the  
only thing he found was a pencil sharpener. Guybrush tried the  
cupboards, but these too were bare.  
  
He stuck his head out the door, peered both ways, and stepped  
out into the hallway.   
  
It ran both ways past the small study. To his right, the passage  
seemed to end at a small, dark room. On his right, it seemed to  
widen out into a large hall.  
  
Guybrush went right, keeping his footsteps quiet. He could hear  
his muscles moving against each other, and his heart beating  
worriedly, but otherwise there wasn't a sound in the place.  
  
So it was a shock when, coming to the hall, Guybrush saw  
stretched out below him a massed crowd of ghost pirates.  
  
"Yi-" he began, then jammed his fist into his mouth to stop the  
noise. The ghost pirates weren't looking at him. They were lined  
up together, rank and file, facing the other end of the hall.  
There were at least two hundred - more than two hundred! Murray  
hadn't exaggerated. Guybrush watched them, horrified. The ghost  
pirates stood perfectly still. Not still as you or I might stand  
- even when trying to be immobile, the muscles of humans  
minutely contract and relax. These ghost pirates stood  
*completely still*. Like transparent, lifeless statues.  
  
The front of the hall, where the ghost pirates were looking,  
held a small stage and lectern. Formerly where the head Monk had  
said his prayers before his assembled disciples, Guybrush  
guessed LeChuck had been using it to make pronouncements to his  
ghost crew. At the rear of the hall, Guybrush was standing on a  
small raised platform, about eight feet above the hall. What  
this got used for, he had no idea.  
  
Slowly getting over the shock, Guybrush started to notice other  
things about the hall. He looked up at the ceiling, and saw four  
rows of metal piping, dotted every few feet or so with thin  
nozzles. This must be the fire sprinkler system. Gazing up at  
it, Guybrush was distracted by something in the foreground.  
  
He did a double take. A thick green root of ginger was suspended  
from the ceiling, right next to this platform. Guybrush could  
reach out and take it.  
  
He did. What was a root of ginger doing here? Well, it was  
certainly a help. Now he just needed an orange...  
  
Guybrush stepped back from the platform and walked down the  
hallway, the way he'd come. He passed the study, heading for the  
small dark room.  
  
It was a dank, oily, little-used room, filled with a mass of  
complicated machinery. Before him Guybrush saw a baffling  
network of metal pipes, valves, wheels and buttons.   
  
Fortunately, the sign above said 'Monastery Sprinkler System'.  
  
The idea hit Guybrush right then, an idea so good he had to stop  
himself from jumping in the air and shouting.   
  
He *did* jump in the air when he saw an orange sitting there on  
the piping. Luck, serendipity, call it what you will, everything  
seemed to be falling his way. Guybrush picked up the orange and  
turned it over in his hands. Working quickly, he pulled the peel  
from the orange, which he tossed in a corner.  
  
Guybrush looked at the machinery. There it was... a large  
bulbous tank near the floor. Guybrush opened the hatch and  
looked inside. Water.   
  
He ripped up the peel and dropped it into the water. In went the  
bark. The corn syrup was emptied in after it. Then the ginger  
root... Guybrush paused. The recipe had said *ground* ginger. Oh  
well, the hell with it. The machinery would probably grind it up  
pretty good. Guybrush threw it in and shut the lid. He looked  
around.  
  
A large red switch on the wall was labelled 'Emergency  
Override'. Guybrush reached for it, tensed, then pressed it  
firmly. Instantly the sprinkler system kicked into gear. The  
water began churning around in the tank, and Guybrush could hear  
it flowing at high speed through the pipes.   
  
A thin pipe was set in the ceiling, and ran straight down the  
hallway toward the main hall. In the hallway, it began to rain...  
  
===  
  
In the great hall, pandemonium ensued. Ghost pirates ran around,  
bellowing with pain, looking for shelter from the burning rain.  
There was none. Every inch of the hall was slowly being coated  
in the slightly sticky water. As the ghost pirates were  
vaporised, a massive cloud of steam coalesced in the air,  
obscuring the carnage from view. But not from ear. The screams  
were earsplitting.  
  
And then it all died down. The screams died away. The steam  
cloud gradually dispersed. The hall was completely empty, save  
for a greasy substance on the floor, which might have been root  
beer, or... something else.  
  
===  
  
"I think it worked!" said Guybrush happily. "Now to find  
LeChuck..."  
  
He walked out into the hallway. A few feet out from the door, he  
stopped. A large, shabby figure stood in front of him, looking  
toward the great hall. It was wearing a filthy pirate coat and a  
tricorner hat. Black hair sprouted underneath it. From the back,  
this looked a lot like LeChuck.  
  
Shock sometimes makes people do strange things. "It's LeChuck!"  
Guybrush blurted out.   
  
The Monk spun around. His eyes lit up with the red flame of  
anger. "He's here! At last!"  
  
Guybrush was completely at a loss.  
  
Because this wasn't LeChuck. You could tell that instantly. He'd  
obviously tried hard - the clothes were spot on, the beard was  
exactly the right length, and even LeChuck's vocal and physical  
tics were expertly copied. But this just wasn't LeChuck. The  
body was too tall, the face too thin, the hands too manicured.  
  
"Err..." said Guybrush, confused.  
  
"My mortal enemy has returned," intoned the Monk dramatically.  
  
"Err... you're not LeChuck..."  
  
"Of course I am!" said the Monk. "I swore never to rest until I  
spilled your blood, Guybrush, and now the time has come!"  
  
"But you're not... what the hell's going on here?"  
  
Before the Monk could answer, Guybrush heard a gun shot.  
  
A look of surprise crossed the Monk's face, followed by some  
kind of realisation. Then his body fell to the ground at  
Guybrush's feet. There was a bullet hole in his back, and  
standing behind him stood LeChuck.  
  
The *real* LeChuck. Not that Guybrush had ever seen him this way  
- his face a mottled blue, his arms and legs shivering with  
cold. But the recognition was immediate.  
  
And so was the panic.  
  
"I believe I can explain," said LeChuck.  
  
"LeChuck!?!" gasped Guybrush.  
  
"You were expecting Donnie Osmond? Of course it's LeChuck! And  
now, Guybrush, your goose is well and truly cooked."  
  
"I... I don't understand."  
  
LeChuck mused, more to himself, "Of course I could just kill you  
now and take over the Caribbean. But I think you deserve a  
special explanation. Brother to brother."  
  
Guybrush tried to pull himself together. "Okay, let's hear it."  
  
"It was very simple," said LeChuck. "You froze me in a block of  
ice. My body was dead and gone, but my mind remained free and  
alive. It waited, burning for revenge. Several days ago, I felt  
another mind draw close. It was this monk, out channelling the  
Caribbean. I seized the channel, dragged myself across, and in  
seconds this guy thought he was me."  
  
"No wonder he went insane."  
  
"Ha ha. That's an extra two days in the torture chamber for you.  
Anyway, using knowledge I taught him, the Monk turned this whole  
island into an army of ghost pirates. I entered the minds of ten  
ghosts, and ordered them to steal a ship and come unfreeze me.  
And now I'm here. The Monk is dead but his army remains. And  
with that army, Guybrush, I will conquer the Caribbean! No  
island can possibly stand before me! You see what I mean,  
Guybrush? It's already too late!"  
  
Guybrush felt a surge of hope. "Too late for you, you mean," he  
crowed. "I already killed your ghost army. Let's see you take  
over the Caribbean now!"  
  
The smile faded from LeChuck's face. "What?"   
  
"They're all gone. Run in there and smell the root beer."  
  
LeChuck growled. "You will pay for this, Guybrush. In fact-"  
  
He stopped. An idea had just occurred to him. It brought the  
smile back to his face.  
  
"-you'll pay in ways you can't imagine."  
  
Suddenly, two ghost pirates appeared behind Guybrush. With their  
lethal touch, they instantly cut off any hope of retreat.  
  
Guybrush looked at them, very worried. "Hey, what's going on? I  
killed you guys!"  
  
LeChuck scowled at him. "Arr, yer didn't think the loss of my  
ghost army would set me back, did you Guybrush? There are other  
islands out there waiting to be ghostified. With my loyal  
ten-strong ghost pirate crew, we can be at any in a matter of  
hours. Actually..." he paused, milking out the suspense,  
"...there's one not far away. I think I'd quite like to meet the  
Governor. Mrs-"  
  
"No!" yelled Guybrush. "Not Elaine!"  
  
"Yes Elaine, Guybrush," said LeChuck. "Marrying her was the  
worst thing you ever did. She belongs to nobody but me!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"No more! I'm taking you with me. You ought to be present at the  
Governor's... final humiliation." He looked at the ghost  
pirates. "Take him away!"  
  
===  
  
PART 4: ASSAULT  
  
===  
  
A new day had dawned.  
  
Out on the high seas, LeChuck and his ghost crew were making  
good time. The monastery ship was a bit small and creaky, but  
the wind was behind them, and the ghost crew were working like  
there would be no tomorrow. LeChuck stood above on the poop  
deck, occasionally barking out orders: "Man the mizzenmast!  
Tack! Furl! Fasten! Elbow grease ya scurvy slackers!"  
  
Guybrush watched it all, helpless.  
  
He was hanging upside down, lashed to the main mast by coils and  
coils of rope. It had been uncomfortable enough as they were  
starting out, but now after hours of sailing the blood was  
really beginning to settle in his brain. It made him dizzy.  
  
Guybrush strained, for the tenth or twentieth time, but the  
ropes wouldn't budge. There was no slack in them at all. He  
could just move his hands enough to reach inside his pocket, but  
that was all. And what would that achieve?  
  
Guybrush thought about what he'd collected. Then he realised -  
the can of oil he'd used to get the rowboat into the ocean. He  
still had it! Guybrush rummaged around in his right pocket -  
nothing. In his left pocket, he eventually managed to grasp a  
metal bottle. This was it.  
  
Concentrating, making every movement as inconspicuous as  
possible, Guybrush tipped the oil can over the ropes. His aim  
wasn't very good, and some splatted on the deck below him. He  
instantly froze, and waited to see if he'd been discovered.   
  
No shouts. No one was even looking in his direction.  
  
Guybrush wormed around in the ropes. Slick with oil, they now  
felt a lot looser. He kept wriggling around. This would attract  
attention, but there was no other way.  
  
Suddenly, he slipped free. Guybrush fell through his bonds, hit  
the deck headfirst, and crashed straight through. "Arr!" yelled  
LeChuck.  
  
The ghost pirates stopped, and looked at LeChuck. "Get back to  
work!" he yelled. "He can't escape!"  
  
In the room below, Guybrush picked himself up, rubbing his sore  
head. "Ow. Rough landing." He looked around.  
  
Normally, this room would have been in darkness. But there was a  
lit candle standing on a box, and the hole in the deck above  
gave good illumination. He was surrounded by boxes, standing in  
some kind of supply room. Most of the boxes and crates were  
utterly nondescript, save for a bright metal box near the door.  
Red lettering on the box said 'EMERGENCY SUPPLIES'.  
  
Curious, Guybrush opened the box. Inside was a single flare gun.  
Guybrush picked it up. Not really a weapon, but it might be  
useful.  
  
He opened the door and peered out.  
  
Outside the supply room was a small, moody hallway, lit by  
lamplight. It ran in a straight line to a ladder leading up, and  
there were two doors on his left. The first door, when Guybrush  
reached it, opened on a small room containing a cannon. It  
pointed out a square hole in the hull. Cannon balls, matches and  
gunpowder were stacked along the floor beside it.  
  
The second room, by contrast, was completely unexpected.  
  
Gone were the greasy wooden walls and the round, 'quaint',  
portholes. The floor, walls and ceiling were coated with glossy  
white paint, and the room was empty except for a bafflingly  
complex piece of metal equipment. It looked like a very  
expensive piece of gym equipment, or so Guybrush would have  
thought if he'd ever been to a gym. It had a padded seat, and a  
single metal arm with rubber handhold. Looking at it, Guybrush  
got the impression there were supposed to be two arms.  
  
A couple of pieces of paper were tacked to a bare bulletin board  
behind the machine. Guybrush read the first. It was a press  
release:  
  
  
  
"Introducing the latest in Spiritual Transportation-  
THE TRANSLOCATOR  
  
The Translocator is a revolutionary new product that at  
one stroke makes getting from A to B as simple as thinking  
about it. Literally. The patented AuraReader technology  
embedded in each Translocator reads the actual thoughts  
of the operator, instantly executing every command. Moreover,  
it can shift vessels up to and including the size of a pirate  
ship. No more mutinous crew!  
  
For more information on the Translocator and other  
SpiritPower products visit your local SpiritPower  
store. Thanks for believing!"  
  
Very strange. Guybrush looked at the machine - the Translocator? -   
and scratched his head. He looked back, and read the second note:  
  
"To whom it may concern:  
  
The Translocator is out of order. This is to fully comply with  
Hard Work Month, during which time no manual labour may be  
avoided. One of the metal roto arms from the Translocator has  
been removed and placed on the upper deck, to guard against  
temptation.  
  
P.S. This means you!"  
  
Well, that explained the missing arm. And now, a great idea struck   
Guybrush. If he could get this Translocator working, then he could stop   
the ship from reaching Booty Island! All he had to do was get the metal   
roto arm from the top deck.  
  
Guybrush paused. LeChuck was up there.  
  
Well, he'd have to deal with him sometime. He hefted the flare gun, and  
strode out the door.  
  
Midway up the ladder, Guybrush slowly looked out the trapdoor.   
  
At first, he could only see sea and sky. Then he slowly turned round, and  
saw LeChuck. LeChuck was standing with his back to Guybrush, looking  
down at his toiling ghost crew. A glint of light struck Guybrush's eyes, and  
he saw the metal roto arm. It was lying on the deck, just in front of LeChuck.  
  
Guybrush sighed. There was no danger of being spotted by the ghost pirates,  
who were hard at their tasks. But there was no way he could take that metal  
roto arm without LeChuck spotting him.  
  
Guybrush climbed up the ladder and stood behind LeChuck. He raised the  
flare gun. Maybe he could distract them with this...  
  
Holding the gun high over his head, like an official about to start a race,   
Guybrush fired.  
  
There was a loud pop, and a huge trail of colour whooshed over LeChuck  
and the ghost pirates. They all stopped and looked up, following the path  
of the flare. It curved away into the sky, climbing higher and higher.  
  
LeChuck hadn't moved. Neither had the ghost crew. Guybrush had been  
counting on them rushing to the far end of the ship.  
  
The flare, growing ever fainter, finally vanished. The ghost crew came back  
to life. "Come on, ya slackers!" yelled LeChuck. "Doubletime!"  
  
Well, that was a pretty spectacular failure, thought Guybrush. He tossed the  
useless flare gun over the side of the ship. What now?  
  
Guybrush paused a few seconds, thinking. Finally, he said "What the hell,"  
stepped forward, and firmly shoved LeChuck in the back. Caught by  
surprise, LeChuck went sailing over the side of the poop deck, and fell  
through the hole in the lower deck. The ghost pirates looked around in  
confusion.  
  
Guybrush picked up the metal roto arm. Got it.  
  
He ran down the ladder, and pelted down the passage to the supply  
room door. Guybrush found the lock and turned it. That should keep  
LeChuck busy for a bit. He turned back and entered the  
Translocator room.  
  
It didn't take much work to fix the arm back on the machine. Now it  
looked better. Guybrush sat on the padded seat and gripped the  
roto arms.  
  
Now how did you work this thing?  
  
Guybrush concentrated, then pulled the left roto arm.  
  
On the deck, the ghost pirates had helped LeChuck back up  
through the hole. He was standing on the lower deck, looking  
around for any sign of Guybrush, when the whole ship suddenly  
jerked to port. It spun around in a full circle, creating a huge  
spray of water that flew over the ghost pirate crew. They ran  
around in total confusion. "Aargh!" yelled LeChuck. "What be  
happenin?"  
  
"Wow!" said Guybrush. "This feels incredible!" He jerked his  
right arm.  
  
This time the ship actually lifted out of the ocean and span  
round in the air before falling back into the sea. The wash  
of water nearly engulfed the deck. Two ghost pirates had  
already fallen off, and nobody knew what to do. "Main the  
sails!" LeChuck roared. "Pull the yardarm! 'Tis some devil  
wind!" Guybrush, he growled under his breath. When I find  
you...  
  
Guybrush was thinking. "I wonder," he said, "what would  
happen if I sent the ship downward?" He rocked forward.  
  
The ship's prow suddenly dipped, and was engulfed by water.  
The ship sank further, tilting even higher until it was nearly vertical.  
Then, like a dagger dropped from a great height, it slipped below  
the waves. The sea above sloshed around for a bit, bubbles of  
air floating up from the ship, and then was smooth.   
  
===  
  
Meanwhile...  
  
Not all that far away, Wally was alone and sitting in a barely  
seaworthy coffin. He had a pencil and a few sheets of paper,  
and if he wasn't going to make it back to land alive - as looked  
increasingly likely - then he wanted the world to know why.  
  
He wrote:   
  
"Captain's log. Wally B. Feed. Lost at sea for... oh, hours now.  
I have no crew or navigational instruments (can't believe I forgot  
my sextant! Stupid!). No provisions except a nest of woodlice.  
Unless I find water soon, I'm surely done for. Only the hope of  
finding some solid ground keeps me going. Oh, but my quest for  
Blackbeard's treasure has left me in a sorry state. I thought it  
would bring me fame and glory... instead I got catapulted through  
the ceiling and here I am, sailing the seas in a coffin. I still suspect  
Guybrush had something to do with this-"  
  
Here Wally stopped writing, because a wet bedraggled head  
had just appeared at the side of his coffin. Two hands grasped  
the coffin and clung firmly.  
  
It was Guybrush - coughing, spluttering and wheezing.  
  
"Guybrush? Is that you?"  
  
Guybrush looked up at Wally. "Wally!"  
  
"That's right," said Wally.  
  
Guybrush didn't know what to say. "Wow, this is some  
coincidence!" he finally said.  
  
"What are you doing here?" said Wally  
  
Guybrush looked just a little smug. "Oh, LeChuck was just  
sailing his ghost crew over to Booty Island to rape and pillage,  
but I put a stop to that. The whole lot of 'em are down there in  
Davy Jones' Locker. Let's see them find his body now!" Now  
he'd gotten his breath back, Guybrush was feeling really good.  
He'd actually done it! This would show Elaine, all right!  
  
"They're all dead?" asked Wally.  
  
"Every last ghost. Say, are you thinking-"  
  
Guybrush didn't get a chance to finish, because another head had  
appeared beside him. Two hands grasped the side of the coffin  
next to Guybrush.  
  
The acolyte spat out a mouthful of water. "Say," he said, "have  
either of you guys seen a huge rundown pirate ship around here?  
Splintery, ragged sails, large ghost crew?"  
  
"It's gone," said Guybrush. "Sunk to the ocean floor."  
  
The acolyte looked downcast. "Oh no. And I was supposed to  
recover it, too. The Head Mo- er, LeChuck is going to be pissed."  
  
"LeChuck?" said Wally. Something Guybrush had said finally kicked  
through. "Hang on, Guybrush, did you say you killed LeChuck?!"  
  
"Yeah. LeChuck's dead. Again."  
  
"You mean..." said the acolyte.  
  
"Actually, both LeChucks are dead," explained Guybrush. "The real one  
and the fake one."  
  
"Oh dear."  
  
They sat there and floated for a bit.  
  
"So, where are we?" the acolyte asked.  
  
"We're floating in the middle of a sea on a barely seaworthy coffin,"  
said Guybrush.  
  
"It's not that bad," said Wally. "I was just about giving up hope  
before you guys showed up, but with three people to propel this  
thing, I reckon we could get a fair speed up."  
  
"But where should we go?" asked the acolyte.  
  
"Hmmm... Blackbeard's maps were no good. They didn't  
correspond to any land mass I know. So we should-"  
  
"I know where," Guybrush interrupted. "Cutlass Island! The  
whole place must be utterly deserted by now. Imagine all the  
treasure!"  
  
"Yeah!" said the acolyte.  
  
"We could even set up our own colony! I can be Governor, Wally  
can be, um, Head Navigator, and you can be the Head Religious Guy!"  
  
"Sounds good to me," said Wally. "And if that doesn't work out, the  
whole Caribbean is our oyster!"  
  
"Let's go!" said the acolyte. They climbed into the coffin. Three pairs  
of hands sprouted down into the sea. They started thrashing away like  
oars.   
  
Already moving at a fair clip, the coffin scudded away.  
  
===  
  
Ten days later...  
  
It was a fine sunny afternoon on Booty Island. Elaine Marley was  
out in the sun, lying down on a deckchair and reading a novel.  
Occasionally she turned a page.  
  
A noise made her look up. Striding triumphantly toward her across  
the lawn was Guybrush. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a hat  
with corks dangling from it, and was holding two suitcases.  
  
Guybrush reached Elaine and dropped the suitcases. "I'm back!"  
he announced.  
  
"Oh, hello Guybrush," said Elaine.  
  
A cool introduction, but Guybrush was too full of pride to worry.  
"Not a pirate, eh?" he said. "It all went super! I killed LeChuck,  
got myself appointed Governor of an island with nobody on it,  
and there's a whole crate of root beer in the trunk!"  
  
Elaine didn't seem impressed. She looked Guybrush square in the  
eye. "Guybrush, do you recall why we had the argument in the  
first place?" she said.  
  
"Ummm..." Guybrush stalled.  
  
"I was angry with you because you didn't do any work around  
here," said Elaine.  
  
"Oh yeah," said Guybrush.  
  
"Now, in the eleven days you've been away..." Elaine reached into  
a pocket and pulled out an ominously long list. She started reading  
from it. "Cobwebs have built up along the outer walls of the  
mansion, the dogs have nearly starved to death, fruit trees need  
to be picked, the corn fields haven't been tilled, there are weeds  
growing around the foundation, a two foot pile of paperwork  
has to be done, we've got dust in the pantry, the oven hasn't  
been cleaned, Philbert wants to get paid, there's a whole stack  
of garbage out the back, and two dead pigeons in the watertank."  
  
"B-But-" stammered Guybrush.  
  
Elaine fixed him with a smile. "Better get cracking, matey."  
  
"But..."  
  
THE END  
  
  
  



End file.
